


touched for the very first time

by pleasert



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Healing, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Drugs, Sexual Assault, Therapy, Trauma, having sex after being sexually assaulted, projecting tee em
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 20:14:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21416023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasert/pseuds/pleasert
Summary: It’s hard, especially because of how much he wants it. How much he wants everything with Pat, how he wants to bear his fucking soul to Pat, wants Pat to take the reins of his body and run away with it. But it’s not as easy as just wanting: his body and mind still associate being touched with fear, and he can’t help but feel prickles of panic whenever he finds himself vulnerable around Pat.Recovery is not a one step process; it's more like a ladder. Brian finds himself stuck on the middle rung.
Relationships: Brian David Gilbert/Patrick Gill
Comments: 11
Kudos: 81





	touched for the very first time

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [born a lion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19347829) by [fishcola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishcola/pseuds/fishcola). 

> this is rpf :+)
> 
> idk who this fic is really FOR besides ME but if you enjoy it please feel free to connect, leave a comment! solidarity and shared experiences in trauma is an important thing. 
> 
> as a precursor, i've experienced the situation depicted in this fanfiction, and this fic is much more of a projection than anything, but healing's healing, right?
> 
> please, read the tags, and note that this fic includes recalling of graphic depictions/descriptions of sexual assault/rape/non-consensual sex. fish said it better than me: "skip it if it's not cathartic to you." 
> 
> peas enjoy <3

** 1\. Shutting Down **

They’re not doing much more than making out when Brian shuts down. 

It’s not like Brian knew this would happen, of course. But he can’t stop it, either. It’s even worse because their relationship is still fairly new: they haven’t had sex yet, and the tension was bubbling up all fun and sexy and Brian had to fucking _ruin_ it because— 

Because they’d been kissing, hot and heavy, on Pat’s couch. And then Pat had placed a hand on Brian’s chest, pushing him back against the couch, and put a thigh on either side of Brian’s legs, pinning him down, and kissed him. Brian _wants_ to melt into the kiss, loving the attention and the gentle touch of Pat’s hands on his face, but the weight on his legs and torso and the inability to move, it—

He’s asking Pat to _stop, please,_ to get off, and Pat does, pretty quickly, sitting next to Brian and asking him _what’s wrong, Bri, _but it’s like he’s floating above his body, unable to control his movements. He can see himself, though; God, he looks a wreck. After he pushes Pat away from him he’s immediately curling in on himself, drawing his knees him to his chest, and his hair is flung into his face, sticking down with sweat and tears on his forehead and cheeks.

He’s sobbing, yeah; he hadn’t noticed it until now, but yeah, he is, yelping and choking and crying, and Pat looks horrified next to him, like he’d done this. _No,_ Brian wants to say, _you didn’t_; and _God, I’m sorry;_ and _I’ll talk to you soon, when I’m not having an out-of-body experience._

When he comes back to earth, his face is pushed in the crook of his arm, eyes closed shut tight, in a fetal position angled towards Pat on his sofa. Pat’s touching his hair really gently, and Brian wonders for a fearful moment how long he’s been sitting like this, calming down from the worst of it. It’s likely that it was more than it felt like to him, but he really hopes not too long. 

_But,_ Brian reasons, _what’s a good amount of time to have a panic attack on your boyfriend’s couch in the middle of making out on a normal night? Oh, sorry babe, just gotta have this five minute panic attack, then we can get back to sucking face. No worries, I am attracted to you and want to have sex with you._

When he starts blinking, finally opening his eyes after them being clenched shut for so long, Pat’s looking at him patiently, kindly. One of his hands is also in Pat’s, and he realizes with horror that he’d been clutching it so hard that he’d driven his nails into Pat’s palm. When he runs his fingers along the skin, Pat winces, but doesn’t give any sign that he minds the wounds Brian’s inflicted on his hand. 

Gently, Pat says, “Hey, Bri.” 

Brian swallows. He’s hoping his face doesn’t look too blotchy but he’s sure it does. “Hey, Pat. I’m sorry.” 

Pat’s not taking that, though. “No reason to be sorry, Brian.” He pauses, then, and Brian can feel his heart in his throat. “Did I do something wrong?” 

Brian’s immediately shaking his head. “It’s all me, I promise, for real.” He can feel his face flush with red, gaining consciousness and embarrassment from his previous state all at once. 

Pat looks unsure, but he nods, and puts an arm around Brian, allowing him to snuggle up close. It’s comforting and Brian falls asleep like that almost immediately, his head lolling against Pat’s chest. 

(Brian wakes up the next morning in Pat’s bed, and wonders how Pat could have lifted him last night without waking him up. Then, he supposes there’s crazier happenings in the world to ponder. Pat’s still asleep in the bed next to him, and Brian greets him with a good-morning kiss despite their combined morning breaths. _Early morning Pat,_ Brian thinks, _is the best Pat of all:_ his hair is mused and crumpled from sleep the night before, and his eyes are still bleary with wake. Brian kisses the sleepy expression from his face.)

** 2\. Processing **

Brian is fidgeting a crazy amount tonight, and he’s aware of it but somehow can’t stop it, either. He’s picking at his cuticles, bouncing his leg up and down, and he’s doing much worse job than usual at beating Pat at Smash Brothers. He’s hoping Pat won’t sniff him out, because _geez_ he doesn’t want to come off like he’s crazy or anxious or mentally fucked up—

Pat does notice, though. He’s observant. He’s watchful. He listens. And he pauses the game that Brian's been doing _a pretty good job at bullshitting, mind you,_ and twists his body to look at Brian on the couch, to slide the Switch controller out of Brian’s palm and to put it gently on his coffee table. He replaces it with his hand, which is warm and steady in Brian’s. It’s comforting how unshaken Pat is about this kind of thing. 

He’s calm. He brings a levity to Brian that Brian needs deeply, a rock he can cling to during storms. And when he squeezes Pat’s hand, Pat squeezes his back, and knocks their knees together. 

“What’s on your mind?” he says, and Brian sighs. 

“How I had to stop us yesterday,” Brian says to the space on the floor, but not to Pat, and he feels like a fucking idiot for not being able to handle things like an actual adult, he’s _twenty-five,_ Jesus Christ— 

“Bri,” Pat says, his voice soft, and then he’s hugging Brian to his chest and Brian cries, then, just a little. Because it feels like he’s allowed to. Because for the first time in his life, it feels like he can cry in front of someone. Pat’s warm and solid and Brian clings to him. “You never have to feel bad for stopping. Never, Brian.” 

But Brian _does_ feel bad for stopping. It’s _frustrating_ for him. “I want to be with you so badly, Pat; it’s just that I’m— I’m really fucking scared, is the thing,” Brian explains into Pat’s chest. 

Pat is quiet. He’s petting Brian’s hair in a comforting, soothing way, just brushing his fingertips lightly against Brian’s scalp. “Why scared?” Pat asks quietly. 

Brian presses his eyes closed. He thinks about his past, his future. 

“I’ve told you about my last relationship, and I told you he was my first time having sex, right?” 

Pat’s immediately a little tense, but he continues his soothing, repetitive movements in Brian’s hair. 

“Well, it’s true, he was my first time, but it was, um, not really, the most consensual thing in the world. It was consensual at first— but, uh, then I wanted to stop and I said no, but he didn’t listen to me. So.”

When Brian finally looks up at Pat’s face, he realizes with a jolt that Pat looks horrified, and starts to ramble. 

“It’s, um. It’s not a huge deal or anything, it’s just made, uh, being intimate with people a little more difficult because I get freaked out. Like, uh, if anything’s weighing me down or I can’t move my limbs, I panic and shut down because it’s like, if I needed to move then I couldn’t. Like, I know that it’s not, like, really that serious because, like, I have friends who have gone through rape and they survive it and they’re so fucking strong and I don’t want to make—”

But Pat interrupts his rambling. “Brian, you were sexually assaulted.” Pat’s voice isn’t firm or in any way corrective: instead, it’s soft. Unbelieving. 

Brian is quiet for a moment. _Sexually assaulted._ It’s a daunting set of words. 

Pat’s heartbeat is pretty fast from what Brian can gauge with his head against Pat’s chest. His hands are steady, though. 

Brian sighs. “I don’t know, Pat. It’s harder to say that than you think.” 

Pat looks at him, and squeezes his hand. Brian notices for the first time during their conversation that Pat’s crying. He’s not making any noise, but his eyes are wet and teary. It makes Brian’s heart hurt and he leans forward to wipe them away from Pat’s eyes gently. 

Pat’s voice is gentle and quiet when he speaks, just speaks enough for Brian to hear him. It brings Brian some comfort during this deeply uncomfortable examination of his experiences. 

“Did you want him to touch you?” 

“No,” Brian whispers back. 

“Did you say no?” 

“Yes,” Brian answers. 

“Then it’s sexual assault, at the very least. And if you said no, then it wasn’t consensual,” Pat answers, one of his hands in Brian’s hair and the other clutching Brian’s hand. He can hear Pat swallow. “And if it wasn’t consensual sex, then it’s rape.” 

The words in the air are swirling around Brian’s head and making his chest hurt with the effort of processing. He feels shaky and his breath stutters on long inhales and exhales. One of his arms is around Pat’s back, and the other is still holding his other hand tightly. Pat squeezes it, and Brian squeezes his eyes shut.

** 3\. Connecting **

Simone always picks up her phone whenever Brian calls. Brian’s not sure why, exactly; he knows she doesn’t do the same for Pat, and he’s not sure he’s seen her do it for any of their other friends. Pat teased Brian once that Simone has a little soft spot for him, and it made Brian blush a little, thinking about it. 

On Saturday morning, Brian’s making pancakes and decides to call Simone about that _thing_ he and Pat talked about the day before. There’s just three rings before she picks up. 

“Yello,” she greets him. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Brian?” 

“Hey, Sim,” he says. “I had something I wanted to talk to you about.” 

He hears Simone’s laugh over the line, which always makes him smile. “And what, you couldn’t just Slack message me about it like a normal coworker?” 

Brian rolls his eyes, though he knows she can’t see him. “Hush. Anyway, Pat and I were having some deep revelations about my past, and uh. It’s kinda serious shit, Sim, but I was, um, sexually assaulted, uh, last year. And I’ve been thinking I need to, uh, find some like, people who have gone through the same shit. A group maybe? Honestly, I should just look online, I’m sure there’s something near here, it’s NYC, after all—” 

Simone cuts off his rambling with a sharp “Brian.” 

Brian swallows. He cranks the flame off on the pan was on medium and slowly burning the pancake that’d been in it. He discards the burnt pancake into the trash and begins to wash the sizzling pan. 

“Brian, it’s okay. I’ve— Well. I’ve gone through the same thing.” Simone’s voice isn’t as confident as it is usually. “So. It’s okay, Bri.” 

He swears, and then shakes his head. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Simone.” 

“It’s okay, Brian.” Brian’s hands are shaking pretty bad, so he puts down his phone and puts it on speakerphone on the kitchen counter. Simone’s voice echoes through the room when she speaks. “I can help you find a group, if you want. And also, we can just talk about it. It helped me to share my experiences with a friend shortly after I was assaulted. Finding community and people with shared experiences who understand — it’s important. It can… it can help you, Brian, if you want help.” 

Brian nods. Then realizes he has to actually speak; Simone can’t see him. “Yeah. Thank you so much, Sim. And thank you for sharing that with me. I’m so glad you trust me.” 

“You too, Bri. A ton. I’ll message you with my work and event schedule for the next couple weeks — we’re gonna fit ‘cha in somewhere, we’re having a night together. No question. Okay?” 

Her insistence is so kind it makes Brian smile. “Okay, Simone. I’ll let you go, now. Talk to you soon.” 

“You too, Brian.” 

The line goes dead, and Brian exhales. 

** 4\. Healing **

When Brian arrives to therapy for the first time in a couple years, his hands are shaking, even though he’d taken one of his legally prescribed Xanax an hour ago. All it really did was make his legs feel heavy, but he still can’t stop fidgeting as he’s walking to the appointment. Of course, the first one was on a date Pat’s out of town — so unfortunately, he can’t come with Brian. Brian’s unsure he’d want Pat to come anyway, though— something about proving himself. He doesn’t know. 

When he arrives at the tall building just under an hour commute from his apartment, and enters the building, the door rings behind him. It’s a clinical lobby: neat, but mundane and cream-colored. This entrance area is also a waiting area: there’s only a few people there, of varying ages. There’s what looks to be a mom and daughter, and the daughter is an older teenager, her hair dyed dark and her attention on the open book in her lap while her mom is occupied with her phone. The other person is an older man who watches the window, the snow falling steadily outside. 

The other person in the room is a woman with a big smile wearing a long sweater and glasses. He walks up to her desk and greets her with a smile. “I’m Brian. I’m here for an appointment?” he supplies, and she smiles back at him and type on the keyboard, presumably looking at some sort of schedule. 

“Brian Gilbert, here to see Emily?” she asks, smiling up at him. He nods. “Alright. Your insurance information is set up already from your online form, but here are a couple of forms to fill out while you wait. They’re so that Emily can have a better idea of what you’re here for and your history. Fill out what you feel comfortable sharing.” 

Brian takes the clipboard with a few papers attached to it and the pen that she gives him, and sits down at an empty row of chairs in the waiting room. 

It’s not Brian’s first time at therapy: not by a long shot. He’s been in and out of it since he was a kid, for the times where his mental health was the worst when he was under 18, as well as when his family was having some trouble when he was really young. Since he’d become an adult, he’d scheduled therapy for himself, because he knows it’s what’s best for him; since starting to live in New York, though, he hadn’t seen anyone, because he just hadn’t taken the time to enroll somewhere new. 

He flips through the pages, skims them. There’s some intrusive questions, but Brian supposes intrusive is normal for therapy. He has to list his medications and say how long he’s taken them, which, truth be told, takes him longer than it ought to; so long that he’s taken out of his form-completion by a person joining the lobby area from a hallway nearby and saying “Brian?” 

They’re a person of a taller stature, wearing a dress shirt and pressed dress pants, with dark hair and square glasses. He stands clumsily, and gives them a quick smile. He holds out his hand politely. “Hi, yeah, I’m Brian,” he says, and they return his handshake and smile right back. Their touch is soft and gentle, and they cradles Brian’s hand with both of their own. 

“I’m Emily. Nice to meet you, Brian. You can follow me down this hallway to my office,” they say, gently, and then lets go of Brian’s hand and gestures to the hallway from which they appeared. 

It leads to a fairly academic setup of rooms, but when Emily opens the door to which is apparently their office, Brian is surprised to see it’s decorated uniquely and it radiates comfort and relaxing vibes. It almost puts his nerves at ease — but his hands are still shaking when he takes the small water bottle they offer him from their desk. In exchange, he gives them the half-finished form that the receptionist gave him.

Emily sits down at this chair opposite a couch in the room, a big tall one with a small end table nearby, and gestures for Brian to sit down on the couch. It’s a leather one, but as he sits down, he realizes how plush and nice it is; and there are embroidered pillows, each with intricate messages and designs, decorating the expanse of the sofa. It’s also draped with knit and quilted blankets. 

“So, Brian. I usually give my patients an opportunity to introduce themselves, tell me a little bit about them. Basically, anything you want me to know to help treat you better,” they explain, and Brian shrugs. 

He’s not great at explaining himself in a few sentences or less, especially when he’s not in a performing persona. He chuckles nervously. “Well, uh, I’m Brian. I’m twenty-five. Moved to New York a little more than two years ago. I’m a video producer and web content creator, which is a pretentious way of saying I get paid to be a nerd on the Internet.” This gets a laugh out of Emily, which Brian feels proud of. “And, uh, I love my job. It’s great. I used to live in Baltimore, but living in New York has been life-changing for me. I’ve got a long-term boyfriend now that I love, and best friends that I am eternally grateful for. I use he and they pronouns, whichever,” he adds, at the end. It’s mostly because he can see the she/they pronoun pin on Emily’s jacket. 

Emily grins at him. “That’s great, Brian. I’m glad you’ve enjoyed living here so far! I’m originally from Illinois, so I understand how transitioning to living in NYC can be a big change. And just so we’re on the same level, I’m Emily. I’m thirty-four. I also have a long-term partner, and I’ve been doing psychiatry since I was in my late twenties. And I use they and she pronouns.”

And then they give Brian an open, kind smile. “What do you want to talk about today?” 

Okay, so, a pretty open question. Brian hums in thought. “Uh, I’ve been to therapy before, a lot, actually. And I think it’s good, and everyone should go to therapy. Like, it would benefit everyone to have counseling, you know?” he reasons, and Emily laughs good-naturedly at this, nodding. 

“Yeah. I think so, at least.” 

“Right. But since moving to the city a couple years back, I haven’t gone to therapy because I just hadn’t bothered to find a new therapist. And now I guess there’s some other things I’d want to talk about, too, now, that I didn’t get to talk to someone about before.” As he’s recounting the more recent happenings of his life rather than joking around, he can’t help but curl in on himself a little, his hand coming back behind his neck to scratch a little. “So I’m here now.” 

“Well, I’m glad you’re here, Brian.” Emily looks thoughtful for a minute, and they take a sip of their own water while looking through the papers Brian gave them before. “You’re on Effexor?”

Brian nods. “Have been for the past seven years. Generalized anxiety disorder.” 

They write something down in their notes while nodding at Brian. Emily’s smile and their interest in Brian don’t seem forced: somehow, Emily is more genuine than most therapists he’s ever met. “Well. Transitions to living in New York City, and the challenges that can come with a change like that, especially for someone as young as you, can cause a lot of stress in one’s life. I suspect there are a lot of things you’d like to talk about, and I want you to be able to unpack everything you want to. This time is yours: you get to choose what we talk about and what you want to talk about.”

It’s calming, to be told that Brian’s experiences of trauma and stress and shock are normal and not something that somehow only he has to endure. He takes a deep breath. “Yeah, for sure. Thank you for that. I guess the most immediate thing is something in my sexual and romantic life, if that’s okay for me to talk about.” 

Emily laughs, but it’s not mean, just a bit surprised and amused. Their eyes sparkle when they say, “yeah, of course! Whatever you’re comfortable sharing. My office is a safe space.” 

So Brian shrugs, and surges forward. “Alright, then. So, the first time I had sex was around a year ago, in a relationship I’m no longer in. And it was… uh, not a good or healthy version of sex.” Brian pauses. Emily doesn’t interrupt, allows Brian to breathe. “Like, I didn’t really realize it until pretty recently when I talked about it with someone I’m close to. But, uh, I’m pretty sure what he did to me qualifies as rape, or at least sexual assault.” 

The expression on Emily’s face when Brian says this all isn’t one that Brian loves to see. In fact, he regrets putting it there, wishing he could steal the words back. _Maybe coming here wasn’t so good an idea. Damn it. _

But. They open their mouth, close it, and then open it again. “I’m so sorry, Brian. Nobody deserves to go through that,” is the first thing they say, but it’s closely followed by, “I have resources for you if you need them. Pamphlets, contacts, group therapy, therapy geared towards sexual assault survivors. But I want to help you in any way I can as well. Did you want to talk about your experience? It’s really okay if not, just offering.” 

Brian’s breathing is steady, but faster than he wishes it was. He wills himself to slow it down, to make his heart stop beating so stupidly fast. He doesn’t want to cry, that’s the main thing. If he can help it. 

Cracking open the small water bottle that they’d given him, he takes a drink before rolling his shoulders back and clearing his throat. His voice comes out sounding more normal than he feels. “I, uh, I have some resources already. If I need more in the future, I’ll ask, but I had a friend give me some information already. That’s actually how I heard about you guys,” he says. 

The place is one of those practices with a collection of psychologists that see patients but this one specifically employs several like Emily that have some interesting tags on their profiles on the website, including that they were versed in sexual health, sexual trauma, and more, and that they were LGBTQ+ friendly. Emily seems to light up when he says that he heard about them from a friend. “Really? That’s great! We’re really happy you found us, Brian.” 

Brian nods, and smiles, and finds that doing so doesn’t feel as forced as it’s been feeling recently. “Yeah, Emily. Me too.” 

** 5\. Trying Again **

It’s just _hard._ Even when he knows Pat wants him. Even when Pat’s hands are curious and touch Brian’s body softly, his fingertips never digging in, never being rough. Pat is always and forever gentle with Brian, in a way that makes him feel even more in love with Pat. 

It’s hard, especially because of how much he wants it. How much he wants everything with Pat, how he wants to bear his fucking _soul_ to Pat, wants Pat to take the reins of his body and run away with it. But it’s not as easy as just wanting: his body and mind still associate being touched with fear, and he can’t help but feel prickles of panic whenever he finds himself vulnerable around Pat. 

It’s late at night. Pretty late. No, very late. They’d played video games and drank bad mixed drinks in Pat’s living room until Charlie fell asleep on the floor in front of them and they were both substantially tipsy, loose. Brian sets his controller down on the coffee table in front of them and drapes an arm over Pat’s chest, kissing his chin and the line of his jaw lazily. 

But then he realizes, in his half-drunk, half-sleepy state how much he likes this: he loves the scratchy feeling of Pat’s beard under his lips, and loves the way Pat pushes his head back, like he’s enjoying this, like he wants Brian to keep going. And so Brian does keep going: he continues his kiss crusade down to Pat’s neck, and begins to apply more pressure as he goes along, dragging his teeth and tongue along each of the parts of Pat’s neck that he finds himself staring at on a daily basis. Pat’s hands seem like they don’t know exactly where to go, but Brian takes them in his hands and puts them firmly on his hips. It’s like a flood of both relief and excitement when he feels the pressure of Pat’s hands clutching at his hips as if by need for something to hold. 

So he sits up, and readjusts, and crawls onto Pat, straddling his lap, and Pat’s looking up at him, his mouth _just_ open in awe. Like he can’t believe this is happening, like he can’t believe his luck. Brian leans down just to give that face a peck, to feel those eager lips meet him and return his kiss in tune. One of Pat’s hands is still gripping his hip, but the other comes to pull Brian’s legs forward, to get him settled in the crook of Pat’s body perfectly. 

Pat has this look on his face that Brian wants to document, wants to file away for safekeeping forever. Because _damn._ It’s dark, his eyes lowering, and his eyebrows just a bit furrowed. He looks hungry — no, ravenous. But he still won’t touch him, not explicitly. 

“You can touch me, Pat. I want you to touch me.” 

And Pat looks at him. Brian’s sure he looks a mess: he’s flushed, and desperate, and a little drunk, and he’s been flirting with Pat the whole time he’s been over. 

“Are you sure?” Pat presses, and he looks as if he’s eyeing a cookie jar that he’s not been allowed to touch for his whole life, but when Brian snaps out the quickest _yes_ he’s ever quipped, Pat’s hands come up to brush over Brian’s chest, his thumbs rubbing circularly through Brian’s t-shirt over his nipples. They harden with the touch, and Brian gasps, tugging Pat forward to connect their lips in a kiss. His breathing hitches into Pat’s mouth when his movements don’t let up, and he rocks his hips down into Pat’s experimentally. It makes Pat breathe out this little _fuck_ that works its way from Brian’s eardrums to his toes, spreading into his veins. 

And then Pat’s hands are both on his hips again, gripping Brian, and it’s better than the first time, because he can feel his shirt riding up a little bit and he can feel Pat’s hands on the soft skin of his navel, his sides, his stomach. Pat seems to notice too, because he slides one flat palm from Brian’s hip to the skin of his back, under his shirt, just feeling Brian’s skin. Brian hums into his mouth, appreciating the gentle, soft touch, before Pat’s other hand guides Brian’s hips to grind his crotch down against Pat’s own, and the pressure of the weighty hardness of Pat’s cock against his, albeit through the layers of both of their clothing, makes Brian gasp. It sends a shock up the base of Brian’s spine and he lets his head fall back, his hair hot and sweaty against the nape of his neck, his eyes pressed closed in pleasure. 

Pat’s hands, though, are still as gentle as ever. It’s familiar, and it makes Brian shiver how light his touch is, exploring up and down Brian’s hips, his thumbs driving into the softness at Brian’s side, touching the flat of his chest, his navel. It seems now that Pat’s started touching Brian he doesn’t want to stop. Brian lets out a breathy sigh that becomes louder, more like a moan at the end, when Pat threads one hand into Brian’s curls. 

“God, the noises you make, Brian—” Pat groans, his hand tightening in Brian’s curls and Brian smashes their lips together. This time it’s heavy with lust and their teeth clack together as Brian sucks Pat’s tongue into his mouth languidly, performatively. Then, he’s prying Pat’s shirt up to expose his stomach and chest, the hint of black hair that trails from Pat’s bellybutton to the top of his boxers… 

And yeah, it’s _scary,_ but Brian’s full of anxiety. He does things every day he’s terrified to do. He moved to New York City at 23. You’ve gotta have balls to do something like that. So, scared or not, he helps Pat to strip off his shirt, and takes his own off, his chest now bare and open to the cool air of Pat’s living room. Pat presses his forehead to Brian’s, and their bodies are aligned, chest to chest; Brian can feel Pat’s chest rise and fall, his breath a bit quicker than normal as he continues to touch Brian’s body with careful, loving hands. 

Pat kisses him again, and takes the opportunity to kiss Brian’s neck, to begin sucking little spots at the side and he can feel every drag of Pat’s teeth, every forgiving swipe of Pat’s tongue. He knows his mouth is open and that he’s grinding downwards against Pat but it all seems so secondary to what every atom in Brian’s being is focused on: Pat’s mouth. Nothing is as important as that as the hickey that Pat’s surely sucking and darkening at the base of Brian’s neck. 

Then, Pat moves his face away from where it was buried in Brian’s neck, and he just looks at Brian for a moment. His eyes are glued to Brian’s neck, and one finger moves over the spot he’d just been sucking — presses down, makes Brian gasp. He looks Brian up and down, like he can’t decide what to do first. The _looking_ is one of the most unbearable parts, for Brian. He’s been told time and time again that he should be proud of his body, but it’s just so impossible to be comfortable while being vulnerable — naked, in front of someone else. When they can see all of your insecurities. 

Brian sometimes spends time after showers to pick at his skin in the mirror. Just little things: acne, when he was a teenager especially, but now more acne scars left over, or grooming his mustache, or biting his cuticles off until they bleed, or something. But it’s never a loving ritual. Never something he wants someone else to witness, or share in. It’s _difficult,_ is the thing, to share your body with others. 

But it’s easier now. It’s easier because it’s late and everything’s fuzzy around the edges and Brian has truly processed and sat with and accepted the way he feels, about everything, about being touched in the past, present, and future. 

When Pat asks him if he wants to go to Pat’s bed instead of the sofa, a laugh bubbles up in his throat and he leaps to his feet almost too quickly, because he could lose his balance, especially with the alcohol that’s apparently still swaying his constitution, but he grabs Pat’s arm for balance and they walk to Pat’s room together. 

It’s not hurried or rushed. In fact, it’s leisurely: Brian takes one of Pat’s hands and pulls him very gently towards Pat’s bed, as if he needs the inclination. (Brian’s sure that he doesn’t: he can see Pat’s erection outlined against the jeans covering his legs.) Before they get in, Brian’s unbuckling Pat’s belt, undoing the front button of Pat’s pants. His hands aren’t skilled and he fumbles a bit with it, his hands unsteady, but Pat helps him when he’s stuck, and they laugh together in the dim lateness of Pat’s bedroom. 

Both of their pants are off and Pat’s hand is on the small of Brian’s back, just guiding him towards the bed. Sure, this relationship is new, but it’s comfortable, and feels relieving already to settle into Pat’s bed. Pat sits down next to him, and lays a kiss on the top of Brian’s shoulder. Brian catches his lips in a kiss afterwards. 

“You’re beautiful, you know?” Pat says, a little softly. “I… I want you to be comfortable. I need you to be comfortable. So let’s have a safe word, okay? It’s not like we’re even getting into, like, kinky shit yet, but—” Brian laughs a little. “But I want you to be able to know you can say this, if you need to stop. You can obviously say ‘no’ and ‘stop,’ or, like, any negative thing, and I’ll stop, too, but let’s just have a word, right?” 

Brian hums in affirmation. “Yeah, of course, Pat. What’cha thinking for the word?” 

Pat laughs softly. “Dealer’s choice?” 

“How about Galoomba?” 

Pat snorts, and then bats his arm a little. “Seriously?” 

“What’s wrong with Galoomba, Pat Gill?” Brian asks, poking Pat in the stomach, and curling his arm around Pat’s neck to pull him forward into a kiss. They both fall backwards at the pull into Pat’s bed, and Pat catches himself before he falls onto Brian, bracing himself above him. Brian giggles a bit at their fall, but Pat kisses the laugh right out of his mouth. 

Before things continue, Brian scootches up on the bed a little with his arms. He pauses, and considers. “Hey Pat?” he asks, and Pat immediately looks up at him, pulling back a little from where he’d been pressed close to Brian. 

“Yeah?” 

“Can I get on top? I think I’d be more comfortable.” 

Pat’s eyes are soft and kind and happy when he smiles and nods. “Yeah. Sure thing, Brian.” They flip so Brian’s on top of Pat, his legs on either side of Pat’s hips, and now that their pants are off he can feel how hot and heavy Pat is through their boxers. He’s sure Pat can feel him too; he’s acutely aware of the wet, dark spot spreading where the precum has been blooming onto the inside of his underwear. 

Pat catches his mouth again, messily, their tongues moving together, and Brian grinds down on him, feels the way Pat’s breath hitches when he moves his hips languidly down against Pat. It’s intoxicating, the little noises he’s emitting: just sighs of pleasure, groans, and swears under his breath. 

And it’s not like Brian’s a virgin, or that he hadn’t done anything before his last relationship; he’d had a long and expansive list of hookups in college, but had never really had penetrative sex with a guy. Blowjobs and handjobs were something he had experience in, that he used to feel comfortable and confident doing — but now, with time and the added blur of trauma, it’s more difficult to put himself into that headspace. And Pat and he had never gone further than this: making out, dry humping, the lingering question of _more. _

So he and Pat don’t have to have sex tonight; maybe soon, maybe not, but for now, just something. Brian’s hands are curious, though, and don’t stay in one place; now he’s working his way down from Pat’s chest to the little dark happy trail he’d spotted earlier, gripping and dipping his fingers below Pat’s waistband. Pat’s hips stutter under Brian’s light touch.

He’s pushing the fabric down, just enough to get Pat’s cock out; it’s a pretty thing, long and red and and pleasantly fleshy in his hand, as he wraps it around Pat and gives him a cursory jerk. It makes Pat’s whole body jerk under him, his leg kicking out, and Brian laughs, moving to repeat the motion and watch Pat react again. He’s moving to lick his hand and spit on Pat’s cock, slicking the glide, and he’s on autopilot, loving the reactions he’s getting from the man below him. Pat’s whining, keening, trying to capture Brian’s mouth with kisses while Brian continues to stroke Pat between them. 

Brian’s mouth feels dry with want and pleasure, but he doesn’t feel nervous, so he lets himself open his mouth, start to talk. “Look so pretty, Pat,” he breathes out, and Pat moans, his thighs squeezing together and hips canting forwards. “So good for me. Perfect.” 

But Pat’s hands come up from where they’d been gripping the bedding and sheets to pull at Brian’s boxers. “Can you—” Pat stops himself, all at once, his mouth slamming shut, but Brian soothes him, runs one hand down the front of his chest. 

“Yeah. Sure thing, Pat Gill,” Brian answers the tacet question, and climbs off of Pat to take his boxers off, shedding them quickly and easily. 

While he’s standing, he takes a moment to relieve some of that pressure, and strokes himself once or twice. Pat looks up at him, his eyes half-lidded and heady. It makes Brian dive forward, back into Pat’s lap, much more concerned about touching Pat than himself. 

But then, Pat leans to grab something from his dresser, and he’s uncapping it before Pat’s moving Brian’s hand out of the way to bring his own hand between them, slick now with lube. Brian shakes in pleasure as Pat closes his warm hands around both of their cocks, sliding together hotly and sinfully. It feels so good that it knocks all of the air out of Brian’s chest, and he realizes with a jolt that it’s not going to be long before he comes, not with all the buildup to this shared moment between them. It comforts him a little to see that Pat’s looking desperate as well; his face is more flushed than Brian’s ever seen it and every exhale from him is a moan as his movements jerking both of them off become less and less consistent and more erratic. 

“Fuck, Pat, _please,_ oh my god,” Brian moans out, leaving open mouthed kisses over the top of Pat’s shoulders and chest. “Mmm, please, so so good— oh, _oh,_ Pat, you can—” 

And he’s coming, with the twist of Pat’s wrist, easy as that, his entire body tensing and his knees squeezing pressure into Pat’s sides as his hips cant forward into Pat’s fist. The white splatters and lands in stringy ropes in Pat’s fist and on his chest, and Pat’s moans and jerky motions from beneath him indicate that he’s spent, too. 

It’s intimate, but strange, after something like this — sex, but not quite sex. Brian leans forward to connect their mouths, still twitching with orgasm, but Pat accepts it warmly, his mouth welcoming and soft. 

When he’s done kissing Pat, just a few seconds of lingering, he raises to his feet, and Pat hums in appreciation as he brings back a cloth, begins to clean up his pale chest. It’s marked with some teeth marks and hickeys that Brian realizes are the work of his own mouth. He wants to feel bad for it, but can’t; he loves the way the bruises bloom over Pat’s neck, a visual representation of Brian’s affection for him, visible for the world to see. 

“Thank you,” Pat murmurs to him, as he brings a glass of water to the bedside table. He’s still laying boneless in his bed, and Brian curls up next to him, his hand draped over Pat’s chest. “Really, Bri, thank you so much. I’m so glad I’m with you.” 

Brian hums. He presses a kiss to the side of Pat’s chest. “Me too. Go to sleep.” 

“I’m serious. I— I know it’s not easy.” 

Brian exhales a little through his nose, the phantom of a snort. “It’s not easy for anyone, I think.” 

He can feel Pat’s smile against the top of his head. And then Pat’s pressing a kiss into his hair. “You’re right, Bri. You’re always right.” 

“Can I take a recording of you saying that and play it back to you when you disagree with me in the future?”

“No.” Pat yawns, and Brian feels the warmth of it seep through his skin. “Fallin’ ‘sleep. ‘Night, Bri.” 

“‘Night, Pat.” 

Brian’s not going to sleep for a little while, he thinks— there’s a lot to process and go over in his mind. But he’s content to stay here, Pat’s arm comfortingly around his back, his head resting just over Pat’s heartbeat, while he thinks. And if Pat’s soft snores lull him to sleep, well. There’s nothing wrong with that.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are easy-peasy to leave, and a-peas my ache for validation! (peas leave 'em!) 
> 
> comment moderation is on, so lurkers may leave comments and indicate that they shouldn't be published. i <3 lurkers! 
> 
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